Tales from the Fourth Age
by fawfulfan
Summary: The Fourth Age of Flight lasted five hundred years, and many resisted its oppressive grip! Follow the stories of Flett Grayle in the year 62, Votsford Drave in the year 186, and Gallifuce in the year 443. Dark Days of the Edge is prerequisite reading.
1. Story 1, Chapter 1

Flett Grayle was invincible.

Dressed in the jet-black uniform of a Freeglade Lancer, he blasted over the Deepwoods canopy, his sleek glistercraft skimming the tops of the leadwood stands beneath. His orders came straight from the top, and he would not fail to carry them out. A band of savage renegades from the east were poised to pounce on a small village to the southwest of Great Glade. Pirates Academic, they called themselves.

As always, they surely intended to abduct loyal citizens of the Empire, shoving them aboard those ridiculous outdated stone-powered sky ships of theirs, and whisk them away to their settlement at the tip of the Edge, where their captives would be sheltered from the magnificent changes transforming the world. If they were able, they would also collect banned barkscrolls slated for confiscation, hoarding it in their library of dangerous knowledge.

But not if Flett had anything to say about it.

The village came into view, and so did a swarm of sky ships. The Pirates Academic were circling it, roaring and chanting in triumph, and clusters of mobgnomes stood in the clearing below, huddling in fear.

"Surrender, revolutionaries!" bellowed Flett, and the captain of the closest ship turned away from the helm to face him, snarling. Swivel-catapults fired blazing ironwood logs in his direction, but he dodged them all and took aim with his glistergun one-handed, steering his vessel with the other.

The pulse of energy from his weapon slammed right into the flight burners of the first sky ship, smashing them to pieces and knocking the stone pilot off the platform. The flight-rock strained in its cradle, and then zoomed upwards into open sky, pulling the sky ship with it. The pirate captain's curses were lost to the wind. But even now, the other ships were zeroing in on him. He gave a cocky smile, raised his glistergun a second time, and…

The sunlight streamed across his face, cutting across his action-packed dream.

Flett Grayle yawned and rose from his bed, crossing over to the window and looking out over the Ambristown district of Great Glade through bleary eyes. The air was already filled with streams of early-morning glistership traffic, and phalanxes of soldiers paraded through the cobbled streets. He then rubbed his eyes and glanced in the mirror, gazing at the reflection of a young fourthling with light blue eyes, a round face, and a long ponytail.

After dressing, he strode into the sitting room of his condominium. How liberating it was to finally have a place of his own, free from his dependence on his parents. Especially now, during all the exciting changes happening in Great Glade. Glorious Leader Vartolius Xax had now ruled over the Deepwoods for sixty-two years. What a time to be alive!

He crossed the room to his refrigerator, opening the door and flooding the room with the red light from the glister that drove the cooling machine. Extracting a jar of hyleberry jam and two slices of barley-bread, he made himself a sandwich, then walked over to his armchair and flopped down into it. Taking a huge bite of his sandwich, he reached for the remote control, turning on the glistervision sitting on a small table in front of him.

The screen burst into life, revealing the smiling cloddertrog anchorman of the Great Glade News Network.

"Good morning, loyal citizens. I'm Glud Trumbclutt, reporting from the Free Glades, and this is GGNN."

The news fanfare boomed out of the speakers, while the seal of the Empire, emblazoned with Glorious Leader Vartolius Xax's face, danced across the screen. Soon, Trumbclutt reappeared.

"The unpatriotic protests in the Farrow Ridges are continuing into their third day," said Trumbclutt. "Paranoid fearmongers in the region are resiliently spouting pseudoscientific theories that the so-called 'Blight', spreading through a secluded section of the Eastern Woods, will destroy the entire Deepwoods and put an end to life on the Edge. A few of these traitors to the Empire are taking their claims a step further, suggesting that Glorious Leader Vartolius Xax is responsible for the infection.

"Naturally, an army of enforcers from the City of Night is being dispatched to the region to put an end to this nonsense. But it is believed that a mild level of seditious unrest has spread throughout the entire Deepwoods. We now go to political analyst Trellit Quilp for an expert opinion on the situation. Trellit?"

A swarthy fourthling appeared in place of Trumbclutt.

"Well, Glud, there's some bitter irony here," said Quilp. "The spread of these naysayers is the real infection here, not the Blight. Riverrise experts assure the Glorious Leader that the Blight has no potential even to spread as far as Great Glade, let alone across the whole Deepwoods. On the other hand, these sorts of contrary opinions have an alarming amount of potential to derail the Glorious Leader's campaign of progress."

_Those hypocrites in the Western Woods! _Flett pounded the arm of his chair in anger. With any luck, their punishment would be swift.

"Nicely worded, Trellit," laughed Trumbclutt bitterly as he reappeared. "But in the abundance of caution, the Empire is still working to investigate the Blight. Glorious Leader Vartolius Xax has released a statement confirming that the affliction of trees in the Eastern Woods is a result of wayward experiments in Omniphrax."

_I knew it!_ Flett thought fiercely.

"Furthermore, the Glorious Leader has hinted that he will shortly be implementing a radical new institution that will shape the entire framework of his government to prioritize the dismantling of the rebel settlements of the east, as well as harness the power of the sky to purify the Edge. This new institution is to be called the "Phraxguardians of Riverrise", but nothing else has been disclosed about it at this time.

"Thank you for watching GGNN—the only way to stay informed about our ever-changing Edgeworld," said Trumbclutt. "We urge you once again to express your loyalty to the Empire by enlisting in the Great Glade Military. By taking initiative before next year's draft enters effect, you will distinguish yourself in the eyes of your superiors, and fantastic rewards await those who pledge every fiber of their being in the name of the Glorious Leader."

Flett turned off his glistervision, flung his half-eaten sandwich aside, sprang to his feet, and began to pace back and forth in the sitting room, his mind racing with wild ideas. The transition to a better Edgeworld was far from over. The Glorious Leader clearly needed all the help he could get, as his impending draft made clear. But he, Flett Grayle, wasn't going to wait for Vartolius Xax to come knocking on his door. No, he was going to come to him, and pledge his services early.

And he was going to do it today.


	2. Story 1, Chapter 2

Heart pounding with anticipation, Flett Grayle left his condominium and clambered into his modest glistercraft. Engaging the jet-chamber, he rose into the air, his seat vibrating and the red lights of the glisters blazing. He pulled out of the garage and joined the slow-moving stream of traffic on Citizen Boulevard.

The Free Glades was only one district away; it wouldn't take too long for Flett to reach the recruiters' offices…assuming he was able to ditch the rush-hour gridlock. Abandoning Citizen Boulevard as soon as possible, Flett took a series of backstreets, passing by apartments, lines of houses, and the occasional mansion of a government official. Soon, he was crossing over the river that divided the residential neighborhoods of Ambristown from the tall, boxy skyscrapers of the Free Glades.

Flett parked his glistercraft and strode towards an imposing black building that towered over its neighbors. Large gold lettering above the main entrance read: "GREAT GLADE MILITARY HEADQUARTERS". People in uniform were streaming in and out of the front doors, many of them around Flett's age. Most of them were fourthlings, although he saw plenty of goblins and trogs as well.

He ascended the stone steps and passed through the doors to find himself in a long, cavernous hall with a white marble floor, lined with desks and filled with soldiers. On one side of the room was a huge line of elevators. There were a hundred of them in all, each grouped into blocks of ten, each block denoted with a large silver number hanging above it.

Flett strode to the nearest counter, where a shifty-looking mobgnome was examining a stack of scrolls.

"Pardon me?" he said nervously. Now that the moment was actually here, he felt nervous and a bit sheepish. But he kept assuring himself that everything would be fine. This was what the government expected of him. He would, in fact, be rewarded for taking initiative himself…he just knew it.

The mobgnome glanced up at him, and a sly grin spread across his face. "Prospective recruit, eh?"

"Well…yes. Yes, that's why I'm here," said Flett, his face growing hot all of a sudden.

"Name?"

"Flett Grayle."

"Age?"

"Fourteen."

"District?"

"Ambristown."

The mobgnome raised his eyebrows in interest. "Ambristown?" he said.

Flett nodded.

"Quite the wealthy district, Ambristown," said the mobgnome. He narrowed his eyes. "You're not saying that just to try to impress us, are you?" he demanded suspiciously. "We get that sometimes, you know. Commander Hargreeve Spifbart doesn't take kindly to identity fraud…"

"No, no," said Flett hastily. "I'm really from Ambristown."

"We can check that," the mobgnome plowed on mercilessly. "If you're from Ambristown, you're sure to be a property owner. We'll have a tab on you and an inventory of your possessions."

"Yes," Flett replied uneasily. "I'm sure you would." He was not being entirely truthful. He had not had any idea that the government so aggressively kept records of more affluent citizens. But if checking them would allay the mobgnome's suspicion, it was fine with him.

The mobgnome turned and disappeared through a door behind the desk. Flett wasn't sure what to do, but, not having been given orders otherwise, he waited patiently for the clerk to return.

A few minutes later, the mobgnome came back, clutching a scroll. "Your claims seem sound," he said. Then, he ripped the scroll in half, then again, then again, and threw the scraps into a basket near the door.

"What…what was that?" said Flett, uneasily.

"You are a property owner no longer," said the mobgnome crisply. "In offering your services to the government, you also forfeit your home and your belongings to the state."

"What?" cried Flett incredulously. "But…but…"

"You will have no need for them anymore," the mobgnome continued. "You are agreeing to a thirty-year tour of duty. When your service is over, you may once more acquire property."

"Do I get my current property back?"

The mobgnome laughed. "You _have_ no current property."

When Flett was to look back on this moment in years to come, he would remember it as the point when his grave doubts about the Empire sprung forth into full being. But the truth was that he felt only a small pang of indignation and suspicion about the government, quickly silenced by rationalizations coming as thick and fast as his mind could churn them out. A true patriot would be honored to give up his property in the name of the Glorious Leader, he told himself. He couldn't deny his duty to the state.

The mobgnome clicked his fingers, and a pair of soldiers appeared beside Flett. "Get him into uniform," said the clerk. "Be quick about it, and he should be ready in time to join the New Undertown patrol…"


	3. Story 1, Chapter 3

If the involuntary surrender of his property to the Great Glade government had been the beginnings of Flett Grayle's unease, his real disillusioning began during his patrols.

There was no training period of any kind. Flett had merely been escorted into a side chamber and issued his uniform—a red jacket with a glisterjet splashed across the front, to be worn over his regular clothing, a simple black belt, and a single, small glistergun.

"In the Great Glade Military," explained the soldier who had supplied Flett with his gear, a gaunt, greasy-looking fourthling only a year or so older than Flett himself, "only the Freeglade Lancers and the very highest officers, like Commander Spifbart himself, get more impressive uniforms to distinguish themselves. For the rest of us, rank is signified by the number of weapons at our belts. To earn more, you must use the weapon you have, and use it well."

Flett examined the pistol in his hands…the hammer and trigger, the small glass sphere housing the glister, the discharge tube that channeled the glister's energy into destructive pulses.

He then lowered his gaze to the other soldier's belt. Clipped to it were three glisterguns, a sparktaser, and a pearly white phraxfire globe. This soldier had clearly proven his might. Perhaps he had fought off a gang of Omniphrax terrorists.

Another soldier—a beefy cloddertrog with a thick black mustache—came into the room as Flett clipped his single glistergun to his side. His belt was even more impressively decorated…Flett saw five glisterguns of various sizes and shapes, two sparktasers, and three miniature glisterbombs. The skinny fourthling sprang at once to a salute.

"Officer Groke, sir…" he began respectfully.

"Away with you, Kittix," grunted the cloddertrog, and the fourthling scurried away. The cloddertrog, Officer Groke, fixed his dull, beady eyes on Flett.

"You, newbie," he growled. "The New Undertown patrol is assembling in the entrance hall. You'll be serving with them today."

Flett nodded, and made to leave the chamber. A thick, hairy arm swooped from out of nowhere and caught him in the chest.

"Not so fast!" spat Officer Groke. "When you are given an order, you are to say 'yes, sir'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you disrespect an officer, you're disrespecting that officer's officer, and the officer of that officer, all the way up to the Glorious Leader himself. And you wouldn't want to do that, now would you?"

"No, sir."

Officer Groke kicked Flett in the back to make him start walking.

Back in the entrance hall, a tightly ordered phalanx of Great Glade soldiers had assembled, preparing to depart for the district of New Undertown. Flett hastily joined the back of the group, standing poker-stiff and sweating slightly.

Officer Groke strode to the front and turned to face the phalanx. "March!"

Instead of moving towards the front doors, they headed for the third block of elevators. Officer Groke produced a key from his pocket and fitted it into a slot in the wall. A compartment slid open to reveal the buttons controlling the elevator. When the cloddertrog pressed a button close to the left edge of the panel, the doors underneath the large silver 3 all slid open at once…to reveal that it wasn't a block of ten elevators at all. Instead, it was a single, gigantic elevator cabin lined with twenty sets of doors…ten sets on the side facing the entrance hall, ten sets on the opposite side. Flett forced himself through a door in the middle, pushed up against his fellow troops, just as the doors all slid shut in unison.

The elevator ascended quickly, roaring as it rose, so that Flett felt like he was being pressed into the floor. After ten seconds, it came to a halt, and the other set of doors slid open.

Flett gasped.

This was the first time he had ever been so far from his home. He had occasionally strayed across the boundaries separating Ambristown from the Cloud Quarter, the Ledges, and the Free Glades. But never before had he gotten a bird's eye view of such a distant section of Great Glade.

They were disembarking onto a wide platform made of lightwood, which faced the industrial districts of East Glade and Copperwood. On the rare occasions when Flett had cast his gaze in their direction, they were visible as nothing more than an insignificant brownish-red smudge. But from this height, he could see the towering columns of smoke, the soot-stained edifices, the streets choked with glistercraft traffic. His stomach churned. Was he the only one in this troop of soldiers who was chilled by the sight?

The GGNN reports were always saying that the Glorious Leader's vision of a new world was nearly realized, save for the impure stain of dissent from within and outside the Empire. But how could that be? How was it that Vartolius Xax's perfect world could allow for such a hideous, spoiled place to exist?

But then, who was he to question the Glorious Leader's plans? He was nothing…nothing more than a loyal servant. Get a lot of people criticizing the actions of the Empire, and next thing you know you have a place like Omniphrax.

The phalanx of troops was marching towards a wide-bodied glistership lined with open-air benches. Already half of the soldiers had sat down, and were gazing at the market clearings for which they were assigned to patrol, far, far below. Flett sat down next to a leering slaughterer who outranked him by only one glistergun.

"New recruit?" grinned the slaughterer. Flett nodded. Below him, the glistership vibrated and floated up into the air, turning away from the lightwood platform. "You may be in for an action-packed first day," said Flett's neighbor, the bloodred skin of his arms tightening as he flexed in anticipation. "There are always slaves trying to escape from the New Undertown markets. Putting 'em back in their place is an excellent way to distinguish yourself."

"Escape?" Flett said sharply. "The slaves are trying to escape?"

The slaughterer cackled unpleasantly. "You're from a rich district, ain't you? Far removed from the action, I'll bet."

"Ambristown," said Flett, then added defensively, "I keep informed. I watch GGNN. And there's never anything on the news about slaves trying to escape. Why should they, anyway? GGNN says that slaves in Great Glade are accorded all luxuries and comforts that they could possibly need…that it is standard policy to upgrade their standard of living if their work meets expectations."

The slaughterer roared with laughter. "Let me explain something to you about 'em folks at GGNN. They take a little creative license. And why shouldn't they? There are some things that, quite honestly, affluent citizens like your old Ambristown buddies are better off not knowing. You'll learn plenty of those things here with us soldiers, just you wait and see."

"So," said Flett, turning pale, "the Glorious Leader isn't telling us everything?"

"He doesn't need to…we have the basics. All we really need to know is that the Empire is a society for the few. Those of us who prove our fidelity end up on top, and those who can't spend their lives working to keep those who can happy. Any other little details—a crushed factory revolt here, a woodtroll village massacre there—are never going to be important."

"But what if someone never gets a chance to prove themselves?" protested Flett. "It doesn't sound like those slaves have any opportunities."

"No system is perfect," snorted the slaughterer. "Who cares if a few filthy slaves can't make 'emselves heard?"

When Flett had woken up that morning, he had considered himself the most patriotic citizen in Great Glade. Now, he was upset and confused. This seemed a brutal way to organize a society. How could the Glorious Leader let it happen?

The hollow answer formed in the pit of his stomach. The reason was obvious—the slaughterer had worded it perfectly. _No system is perfect_. This was, it seemed, as good as it could get. If the Empire's optimal world had such glaring problems, he thought, how appalling must life under those Omniphrax anarchists be?

The glistership touched down in front of a platform suspended above the river separating the Free Glades from New Undertown. Flett disembarked with the rest of the soldiers and began to march through the cobbled streets of the market district.

Some of the markets seemed innocuous enough, selling the items mass-produced in the factories of Old Forest and the Silver Pastures. But up ahead was a large, gated complex resembling a prison. Barred windows lined the walls on every level, revealing disheveled souls stuffed into tiny, dark cells. Platforms were suspended from every level, crowded with factory owners, their voices vying with each other as they bellowed their bids. Flett could just make out the tops of other such complexes protruding above the otherwise modest skyline of the district.

The troop began to patrol. Snaking through the streets, they circled around each slave market twice, before turning and setting off for a different one. They didn't even seem to bother scrutinizing the other areas of the market…and the numerous violent crimes clearly visible in back alleys didn't draw any eyes other than Flett's. After the third time that Flett had urgently pointed out blows being exchanged over a sack of gladers, only to be ignored, he gave up, trying to avert his gaze from the sources of the yelling.

However, they shortly ran into something that _did_ draw their attention. At the fifth slave market, they were greeted by the sight of two gnokgoblins fleeing in terror from a group of burly fourthlings. They were dressed in red uniforms similar to the soldiers', but also wore tall tricorn hats.

Flett recognized them as members of the United Leagues of Great Glade…an organization named and dressed in sardonic honor of the avaricious, cutthroat Leagues of Undertown who had controlled all commerce in the regions at the very tip of the Edge many hundreds of years ago. Ostensibly the Leagues of Great Glade existed to implement checks and balances on the economic policies of Vartolius Xax. But in light of all the nasty revelations Flett had experienced today, he now suspected that they served a different purpose…to keep slaves in line.

Four soldiers dashed forwards and cut off the hapless gnokgoblins' escape route. Flett recognized one of them as the slaughterer who spoke to him aboard the glistership. They attempted to change direction, but too late. Each one was seized by two pairs of hands. The leaguesmen instantly slowed to a relaxed trot, grinning nastily.

"Do you want 'em back?" called out the slaughterer.

"No," said the leaguesmaster leading the group.

"Very well then," the slaughterer said.

"No…please…" whimpered the gnokgoblin in the slaughterer's hands. The slaughterer laughed evilly, relinquished his grip, and backed away, as a brogtroll who was holding the other gnokgoblin did the same. The remaining two soldiers forced the gnokgoblins to their knees, raised their sparktasers, and pressed them into the backs of the escaped slaves' heads.

After a few seconds of piercing screams and howls, Flett realized with an icy chill that the soldiers were not going to remove the sparktasers. They would hold them there as long as it took…


	4. Story 1, Chapter 4

Flett was unable to sleep that night. He lay in his bunk bed a hundred strides above the ground, staring up at the underside of the bed above, surrounded by hundreds of snoring soldiers. The image of the two gnokgoblins was burned into his mind, and their howls refused to fade from his ears.

How could it be justified? Was the Edge really as good as it could be?

He had never believed that it was, but never before had it been for the reason it was now. He had grown up hearing about the sinister dissidents, the revolutionaries bent on returning the Edge to its former state of darkness. He had believed that their eradication was the only thing standing in the way of global perfection.

But how had the killing of those two slaves been necessary? Had they even done anything wrong, aside from challenging their own position? Was that really enough to justify murder?

Perhaps it had been a fluke, thought Flett desperately. Maybe it was a violation of what the Empire stood for. The slaughterer and his three accomplices would pay for their overzealous actions, surely!

But after hours of sleepless shifting in his bunk, when morning finally came and he joined the assembly of soldiers, it was to find that those soldiers had been _promoted_. He found the four of them standing there smugly, sporting shiny new glisterguns at their belts. Some of his shock and horror turned to anger. He took a position as far away from the slaughterer as he could.

Officer Groke appeared through a side door. "Today you will patrol Northern Outer City. Let's move!"

_Another district I've never seen before_, thought Flett. He wondered what he would see this time.

The answer, it turned out, was gut-wrenching poverty. The glistership docked in front of a sprawling slum of ironwood shacks and burned-out groves of dead trees. Citizens of every tribe sat in varying states of dirtiness and hunger, plying their individual trades with little success.

"What in the name of Earth and Sky are we doing here?" he asked his neighbor, and saw with a lurch that he had ended up right beside the slaughterer again.

"Easiest patrol in the world," he replied with a smirk. "We're just required to march through and not do anything. It's all about maintaining an intimidating presence. These people have nothing. If we didn't keep reminding 'em of our power, they might very well decide that they ain't happy where they are."

"What if they're loyal to the Empire?" cried Flett. "What if they _deserve_ more?"

"They live here," said the slaughterer. "That means they blew their chance. Simple as that."

Flett gazed around in rage. It was _not_ as simple as that. There were young'uns here. Babes in arms. Every one of them skeletal and half-starved. What about them? They never had a chance in the first place. And they would never get one.

"Wait a minute…" said the slaughterer, his eyes narrowed with contempt. "You _sympathize_ with this scum, don't you?"

Flett didn't answer. The slaughterer shoved him, and he fell into the mud with a squelching splat. Flett stared up in shock, to see a glistergun pointed into his face.

"There's no room in the Great Glade Military for weakness," spat the slaughterer. "I'll be watching you. My fellows and I wouldn't think twice about ripping your jacket and belt off and leaving you out here to stay with the unwashed masses."

Flett stood up again, dripping with mud and burning with defiance. "You son of a mangy gutter vulpoon," he snarled. "You barely outrank me. How dare you."

The slaughterer lowered his glistergun, grinning unpleasantly. "Save that kind of rage for the traitors and slime," he said, "and you'll go far."

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Flett standing there, rooted to the spot, feeling wretched. Only when Officer Groke cast a suspicious look in his direction did Flett jump to attention and charge after the rest of the troops.

Though none of the soldiers stopped to bully any of the citizens this time, Flett saw the residents cringe and cower as they caught sight of the party of troops. They shrank back into their rotting hovels and ducked beneath the counters of their crude stalls, to the raucous laughter of many soldiers.

Flett closed his eyes, trying to shut out all the misery, but he still heard every derisive laugh, every fearful gasp and hunger-wracked groan. The end of the day's patrol seemed to take a hundred years to arrive.

It was worse the third day, when Officer Groke led them through the streets of East Glade. Flett choked on the suffocating smog, heard the cries and moans of thousands of slaves toiling within the weapon factories from over the roar of the machinery and the steady noise of traffic on the streets, and witnessed the savage torture of a half-dozen runaways. Some of them were killed then and there, but others were taken away by glistercraft-piloting Freeglade Lancers. The Lancers were present on every corner, their black robes and spiky red _F_ insignias drawing Flett's eye wherever he looked. Every so often he would catch a glimpse of a leaguesman factory-owner, striding past and looking very pleased with himself. From time to time, he also witnessed the slaughterer looking at him, as though daring him to object to what he was seeing.

Flett attempted to resign himself to the prospect of his career. He was bound to serve for thirty years as a thug, a lackey, one of the Empire's expendable bullies. But he simply couldn't bear the thought. As the days stretched into weeks, he began to revile everything about the life he had taken on.

And then, one night, when he was once again crammed into his tiny bunk in the Free Glades headquarters, he heard voices whispering to each other on the far wall.

"You heard it too?"

"Yeah, Kittix. I did."

The slaughterer and two other soldiers were whispering to each other.

"Escaped slaves?" said the slaughterer.

"Definitely," grunted a young gray trog. "And I'll tell you something else, Ligament…they don't seem to have any idea that they've walked straight into the lion's den!"

"They must think they're going to hijack a troopship," said the greasy fourthling who had supplied Flett with his uniform, his grin visible even in the darkness of the sleeping quarters.

"And what do they think they'd do with it?" snorted the gray trog. "Sail it to Omniphrax?"

"Who cares?" said the slaughterer gleefully. "All we gotta do is catch 'em and kill 'em. We'll be rolling in new weapons!"

The three of them began to climb down, clambering from bunk to bunk, heading for the floor. Flett's mind was racing. Escaped slaves inside a Free Glades government building? They wouldn't stand a chance. It wasn't right. He couldn't bear it anymore. He knew that he must try to rescue them, in the name of all that was decent.

Taking great care to stay in the shadows so that the three gleeful soldiers wouldn't spot him, Flett began to step down across the bunks, just as they were. It was no easy task. He had to perch himself on just the right spot whenever he reached a new platform. Too close to the edge, and he would lose his balance and fall. Too far, and he would trod on the toes of a sleeping soldier. Fortunately, he managed it, though a couple of times he gave ungainly wobbles, or caused a soldier to shift around in agitation.

His feet touched down on the tiled floor, and he looked around to see the dark feet of the slaughterer just visible between the frame of the bunk he hid behind.

"Locked," grumbled the gray trog.

"No worries," said the slaughterer, and he reached into his belt, turning it inside out to reveal a tiny hidden pouch clipped to it. He pulled from its depths a small object that glinted in the moonglow from a skylight far above.

"A master key!" gasped the fourthling. "But how…"

"Swiped it from old Groke's quarters," said the slaughterer proudly. His arm moved forwards, and the door swung open with a metallic clang.

"Wait!" hissed the fourthling as the slaughterer made to leave. "You can't keep that key with you!"

"You little oakpansy," growled the slaughterer, stowing the key once more. "Course I can!"

"If we get promoted for killing them slaves," the fourthling muttered, "Groke's gonna remove our belts to add the new clips. You think he won't notice your little hidden pouch?"

Even in the faint moonlight, Flett could see the slaughterer's face flush purple with sudden fear. He tore the pouch from his belt and flung it to the floor.

"That won't solve the problem," said the gray trog nervously. "Even if we don't have the key on us, Groke's gonna be curious how we got out in the first place."

They stood in silence for a moment. Then, the fourthling said "We can say that the slaves opened the door. Yeah, they opened the door thinking there might be an exit here, and they woke us up, so we chased them. And that key down on the floor…that was the slaves who stole it. But they dropped it on the way out."

"Brilliant, Kittix!" cackled the slaughterer. "Now let's get 'em!"

Flett waited until they left before darting forward and snatching up the discarded master key. He then began to creep along after them, following the footsteps down the dark halls and up and down flights of stairs. As he continued on, however, the realization dropped into his stomach like a load of leadwood. He had no plan. Was his goal to find the slaves and lead them to safety? Was it to somehow stop the three soldiers ahead of him?

He came to a choice of paths. The footsteps had grown distant now, and he couldn't tell which way the three of them might have gone. But then, he heard scuffling sounds off to the right, and tore off in that direction.

He found himself in the entrance hall, which was dark and nearly deserted. The night patrol had left and the clerks had retired to their sleeping quarters. But he did see three figures heading in the direction of the elevators. They were nothing more than three black shapes outlined against the twinkling lights of the Free Glades skyline shining in through the upper windows.

They reached the fifth line of doors. One of them opened the panel and began to press buttons frantically. But that didn't make sense. The three soldiers had left their key behind…it now dangled from Flett's own hand. So how were they opening the elevator?

In that instant, though, his puzzlement was eclipsed by an idea. If he could just get to the elevator panel before the cab started moving, he would be able to stop it. It wouldn't make a tremendous amount of difference if the soldiers were able to control the elevator anyway, but if the slaves were indeed up on one of those lightwood platforms, trying to commandeer a glistership, every second would count. He might just manage to buy them some time.

As the doors slid shut, he tore across the room to the panel, and quickly scanned the line of buttons. His eyes alighted upon a button that said "QUICK LOCKDOWN", and without a moment's hesitation, he slammed his fist down upon it.

The elevator cab, which had been a second away from moving upwards, remained where it was. But at that same instant, a screaming klaxon pierced the silence of the entrance hall. Red lights blazed into life in the ceiling. This was much more of a diversion than he had bargained for.

He was just about to turn away and run when he suddenly heard muffled thumping coming from the elevator cab, punctuated by desperate yells…yells which didn't sound anything like those of the three bloodthirsty soldiers. In a flash of blinding realization and gut-wrenching horror, Flett realized what he had done.

He dashed back over to the panel and pressed another button. The closest of the ten doors slid back open. Dashing towards the opening, he yelled "Come on! Get out!"

The three terrified woodtrolls inside did not obey…and Flett could hardly blame them. It didn't look to the escaped slaves as though Flett was their savior. Instead he looked like a Great Glade soldier who had just burst onto the scene and sounded the alarm.

Unfortunately, before Flett had any time to try to help the woodtrolls, the door slid shut behind him. He was trapped right along with them.

Mercifully, the alarm was muffled in here, allowing him to speak in a normal voice. "It's all right," he said gently, taking a step nearer to the trembling escapees. "I'm here to help you escape."

The woodtroll in the center—a large, stocky individual who was clutching a second stolen master key—stared at Flett as though he had just announced that he was going to sprout wings and fly. "Wh-what did you say?"

"I've been with the Great Glade Military for only a short time," said Flett. "And I've had enough of it. This city is a nightmare, and my fellow soldiers are sadistic. I can't take it anymore."

The woodtrolls sat in silence. Only the alarm outside the cab could be heard.

"Tell me one thing, though," said Flett. "What would you do if you did manage to get free?"

"We'd get out of here," said another, who looked as though she could be the first's wife. "Out of the Empire. We'd seek a new life in Omniphrax."

"Omniphrax?" said Flett in surprise. "You…you'd go there _willingly_?"

More silence. Then, the first woodtroll said, "You really believe Vartolius Xax's propaganda, don't you?"

"I'm getting less certain of it every day," said Flett.

"Omniphrax is nothing like the backwards, sociopathic no-man's-land that they tell us about," said the woodtroll. "Far from it. People are _free_ there. Free to voice their own opinion, to choose their own way of life. They reject the idea of a "Glorious Leader" telling people what they must do. They encourage free thinking and the free exchange of knowledge."

"But…but…" said Flett. This last revelation was more shocking than anything else he had discovered…more than the poverty and brutality, more than the fact that Vartolius Xax kept certain knowledge under wraps, more than the idea that a cold-hearted disregard for life was what it took to rise through the ranks of the Great Glade Military. The idea that Omniphrax was actually a place of liberty was more unbelievable than the rest put together. And it didn't entirely add up.

"But what about those 'Pirates Academic'?" he said. "The ones who abduct citizens of the Empire?"

"They don't 'abduct' them," said the second woodtroll. "They _save_ them. Most of the people who are rescued by the Pirates Academic have their villages slated for destruction at the hands of the military. They would be killed. And believe me, there's nothing forced or involuntary about the way they are taken."

"And besides that," said the third woodtroll, a young individual of about Flett's age, "they rescue barkscrolls that would otherwise be seized and burned. Vartolius Xax seeks to wipe out the knowledge of earlier ages…he wants total control over the information that travels through the Deepwoods."

"And the Blight?" said Flett. "Vartolius Xax claims that Omniphrax caused it."

"Total rubbish," said the first woodtroll. "No one really knows what caused the infection, but blaming Omniphrax was simply another tactic to turn his subjects against the one place in the Edge that could offer them a better life."

Flett's mind was spinning. It was all so impossible. So outlandish. And yet…it wasn't. The more he thought about the woodtrolls' version of things, the more it made sense.

At that moment, all ten elevator doors slid open to reveal a crowd of soldiers. They gathered around the spot, forming a semicircle. Flett could see the three soldiers he had been pursuing, the slaughterer looking resentful, as though a treat had been snatched away from him. And in the very center stood two figures whose appearance made all the blood drain out of Flett's face.

One of them was a short, barrel-chested tufted goblin wearing a red uniform covered in gold trim…Commander Hargreeve Spifbart, the highest-ranking official in the Great Glade Military. And beside him stood a very different figure. Tall, pale, gangly, and brutal-faced, a thin black goatee emphasizing his long nose and pointed chin. It was none other than the Imperial Governor of Great Glade himself, Xelius Pulnix.

Yet the two of them did not seem shocked or outraged by Flett's duplicity. In fact, they didn't even seem to be aware of it. The pair of them stared at the woodtrolls in triumph.

"Of all the things to witness during my surprise inspection," drawled Xelius Pulnix in a nasally voice. "I never expected to be greeted with a first-hand look at how the Great Glade Military responds to intruders in its headquarters. Well done, Commander Spifbart. Well done indeed."

Commander Spifbart bowed respectfully.

Xelius Pulnix strode towards the elevator doors and gazed down upon the quaking woodtrolls. He nodded nastily to Flett. "Such a quick-thinking young soldier," he said. "All that's left is to finish them."

Flett stared at the Governor, and then shakily withdrew his glistergun, though he did not fire it. He remained frozen in place for several seconds, his shaking hands pointing the glistergun at the woodtrolls.

"That's it," grinned Xelius Pulnix. "This is the easy part. All you have to do is tighten your finger…"

Flett suddenly swung the glistergun around in his hand and fired into the crowd of soldiers, who yelled in shock and scattered as the pulse of energy chipped the marble floor. He tore out of the cab and shoved two stunned-looking soldiers aside. The woodtrolls, he saw, had leapt into action, waddling along in his wake.

"Seize them!" screamed Xelius Pulnix from somewhere far behind.

The crowd leapt into action…but it was too late. Flett and the woodtrolls had burst through the door, and were tearing down the stone steps. Several glistercraft were parked in front of the building.

"In! Get in!" shouted Flett, diving into the nearest one and flipping several switches, just as the woodtrolls leapt into the back seat. The vessel whined to life, the glisterjets throbbing with their bloodred glow and the propulsion ducts screaming, and they shot away into the night sky, just as dozens of soldiers came swarming down the steps after them.

They had escaped. And now that Flett's eyes had been opened, he wanted to reach Omniphrax just as desperately as the woodtrolls. They would achieve freedom or die trying.


	5. Story 1, Chapter 5

The glistercraft zoomed over the markets of New Undertown at top speed, Flett's hands slippery and sweaty on the controls, the three woodtrolls hanging on for dear life.

"We…we can't thank you enough, kind sir," gasped the largest woodtroll, one thick, hairy arm wrapped around the safety rail.

"Name's Flett Grayle," said Flett without turning around in his seat, focused as he was on leaving Great Glade's airspace. "What are you called?"

"I am Barkley Timberslice," he replied. "This is my wife Grenda, and our son Peatwood. I carved furniture out of felled trees on the outskirts of Southern Outer City, and sold it dirt-cheap. I was just successful enough to feed my family. Trouble is, being healthy is a curse down there. Those with any strength left in them are bound to end up in the slave market eventually. So it was with us. Family of fettleleggers next door jumped us in our sleep and dragged us to New Undertown, where they sold us for fifty gladers each. Course, now they've got enough money to eat for a couple months, they'll probably find themselves targeted before long. That's the way of things."

Flett shivered in horror. Beneath them, the markets abruptly were replaced by the factories of the Old Forest district. "Well, you'll never have to live in fear again. We're going directly to Omniphrax."

The thought made his chest swell with excitement. But he had little time to dwell on the idea before he noticed an unwelcome sight in the wing mirror.

"We've got company," he growled darkly, turning around to stare at three pursuing glistercraft, each captained by a pair of Freeglade Lancers.

He should have known it wouldn't be that simple. He had stood up to Xelius Pulnix himself, after all.

One Freeglade Lancer in each craft stood up, taking aim with glisterguns. "Hang on!" screamed Flett, banking sharply away, as three bolts of energy converged on the point where their ship's left glisterjet had been a second ago. Grenda shrieked in alarm, and Peatwood clutched the back of Flett's seat in a viselike grip. Keeping one hand on the steering stick, Flett returned fire, and miraculously he hit one of the oncoming vessels' jet-chambers. It exploded in a flash of white light, while the liberated glister streaked into the darkness with rainbow bursts. The Lancers screamed as they tumbled over the side of the listing craft and fell towards the factories below.

The other two ships regrouped and surged forwards as the wounded and now pilotless third craft dropped out of the sky and exploded against the wall of a foundry. Slowly gaining on Flett's vehicle, the Lancers redoubled their efforts to shoot him down. Flett swooped low and wove rapidly in between smokestacks. His pursuers didn't miss a beat, continuing to take aim whenever there was a clear line of fire between the great columns. Whenever this occurred, Flett shot up or down, then retaliated with some one-handed shots of his own. The recoil was agony on his wrist, but he did not let up.

"Flett!" bellowed Barkley in terror. "IN FRONT OF US!"

Flett whipped his head around just in time to see that they were headed directly for the curved side of a massive smokestack extending for hundreds of strides above them. Flett pulled back on the controls, and the glistercraft shot upwards at ninety degrees, nearly brushing the side of the smokestack. The woodtrolls hung on to Flett's seat for grim death. Above, Flett could see thick plumes of purple steam spewing from the top. Underneath, the two pursuing vessels twisted around and spiraled up the side of the smokestack.

At the last second, Flett pulled away from the oncoming wall of boiling vapor above. One of the enemy vessels broke away and followed. The second, however, didn't turn in time and flew straight through the emissions. When it was spat out the other side, the craft gently dipped and fell, its occupants slumped forward and their skin burned a raw pink. The vehicle slammed into a much slenderer smokestack, which buckled and began to fall, as fragments of the smashed glistercraft flew everywhere.

The remaining Freeglade Lancers doggedly continued their chase, even as Flett cleared the last factory and now flew over the canopy of the Deepwoods. The ship rose through the sky, almost directly above Flett, and a Lancer leaned over the side to take aim once again.

BOOOOOM!

Flett had gotten in a shot before the Freeglade Lancer had had a chance. Like the first ship, one of its jet-chambers had shattered, and the occupants were pitched overboard. But now the ship was headed directly for Flett's vessel, tumbling through the air, on a direct collision course. Flett reached for the steering apparatus…to find that it had been smashed to pieces. Evidently the Lancer's last shot had found its mark after all.

"We've got to jump!" screamed Flett. "It's our only hope!"

Barkley and Grenda didn't move. They merely sat there, rigid in their seats, paralyzed with terror. But Peatwood managed to gather his wits in the very nick of time. In unison, Flett and the young woodtroll dived from their seats while the air behind them exploded.

Miraculously, they managed to catch hold of an ironwood pine branch close to where they had bailed out of the glistership. The force of the landing knocked the wind out of them, and they lost their grip, only to land on the branch immediately below them, gasping, scraped, and bruised…but safe.

"M…mother," breathed Peatwood. "Father…"

Flett laid a hand on the woodtroll's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Peatwood collapsed, heaving with horror and grief and fear.

"Let's see to it that they didn't die in vain," said Flett firmly. "We're alive. We can still make it to Omniphrax. But we have a long and treacherous journey ahead…"


	6. Story 1, Chapter 6

Flett left Peatwood alone for nearly an hour, to absorb the awful truth, to try and wrap his head around the awful fact of his parents' death. The young woodtroll lay facedown on the branch, trembling, and Flett knew there was nothing he could say to ease his pain. In the meantime, however, there was business to attend to if they were to have any hope of surviving their trek through the endless Deepwoods.

Thank Earth and Sky, he thought, that one of the few things he knew about the Deepwoods was how to find food if you were in an ironwood pine. He had learned it in a story his father had once told him, about ancient sky pirates during the First Age of Flight. He found himself hoping desperately that the story had its roots in reality.

He strode over to the trunk, placed his foot on one of the massive slabs of rigid bark, and began to climb, taking care to avoid the gobs of resin oozing from cracks here and there. He didn't have to climb far before he reached a branch that protruded from above the tree canopy.

After poking around amid the needles, he managed to find the first of the two things he had hoped to see…a sprawling cluster of round balls of fungus, emitting a sweet scent. He pulled off his jacket, stuffed his sleeves through the neck hole, and tied off a thick knot that effectively sealed off the opening. Then, he plucked all of the fungus balls off the branch and stuffed them into the makeshift bag.

When he was at last satisfied, he got to his feet and headed for a cluster of massive pinecones. Cracking them open one by one, he extracted armloads of kernels and meticulously peeled them, dropping each one into his jacket along with the fungus.

"What have you got there?" said Peatwood, face wet and eyes bloodshot, as Flett returned with the bulging jacket.

"The mushrooms will hydrate us," Flett explained as he extracted one. He squeezed it, gathering the liquid that burst forth from the little fungus ball in his cupped hands, and slurped at it greedily. "They're filled with skynectar. And these," he added, pulling out a pine-kernel and popping it into his mouth, "contain all the nutrition we need."

Peatwood cautiously took a mushroom and squeezed it, just as Flett had done. He wasn't quite as careful, and half of the skynectar spilled onto the branch, but he managed to take a few sips and smiled appreciatively. He then took a pine-kernel and began to chew it.

"How long will this last us?" he mumbled thickly.

"Theoretically, a very long time," said Flett. "Maybe even a month, if we ration it well. Though we also ought to supplement it with any edible fruits or roots we can find. I don't suppose you could…"

"No promises," said Peatwood. "I can recognize a few edible plants. But only maybe the half-dozen or so varieties that grew on the edges of Southern Outer City."

"Worst case, we can probably find another ironwood pine and stock up again later on," said Flett. "In the meantime, we should get some rest. Tomorrow we'll climb down and set off."

Flett could tell that the prospect frightened Peatwood. Even now, in an interconnected and globalized Edgeworld, woodtrolls were a timid people who feared straying from the path. The idea of setting off into the wild regions of the Eastern Woods was not an inviting prospect to Peatwood. Nor, come to that, was it particularly inviting to Flett.

After a few hours of sleep, Flett and Peatwood rose and began the process of climbing down the ironwood pine. The process itself was not difficult…in fact, Flett found it easier than having to climb down the bunks each morning in the Great Glade Military headquarters. The slabs of bark were neatly spaced and created large footholds and handholds, and the only obstacles were the hammelhorn-sized beads of resin clinging to the trunk. The bigger problem was the sheer length of the descent. The tree was as tall as any tower in Great Glade, and one single error could send them plunging to the ground hundreds of strides below. Flett was also preoccupied with the forbidding prospect of hiking through the Deepwoods once they actually touched the ground…for all its beauty, he knew that danger lay in wait around every corner. Worse still, he had lost his belt. At some point during the chase, it must have been torn away from him. As a result, he had lost his glistergun…he had no way to defend himself and Peatwood.

At long, long last, they reached the soft, loamy soil of the forest floor, and, after Flett had determined their direction by the angle of the shadows, they began to march eastward. Shafts of early-morning sunlight streamed through gaps in the branches, casting light on dewy glades and spectacular flowers. The forest was filled with the sounds of coughing fromps and hooting quarms, and twittering flocks of skullpeckers and snickets swooped in and out of the high canopy. On that first day, they didn't come across anything threatening, save for a giant barb-tongued thundergecko that was basking sleepily and paid them no head. They walked east all day, and after a supper of pine-kernels and skynectar, they took up residence in a redoak, the spiraling pattern of its branches allowing them to lie down comfortably. In spite of the shrieking and growling of the night creatures that pierced the night relentlessly, Flett found it far easier to sleep out here than he did in the government building.

Over the next couple of weeks, most of their journey was uneventful, although they did narrowly escape mortal danger a few times. On one occasion, three days after they had escaped Great Glade, Peatwood had yanked Flett backward just as he had been about to enter a silent, empty clearing full of swaying gladegrass. A moment later, Flett staggered backwards himself, to avoid the groping tendril of a tarry vine, the flesh-eating bloodoak tree with which it was partnered audibly gnashing its teeth in disappointment from within a dark grove beyond. Two days after that incident, Flett had returned the favor by stopping Peatwood from seizing a ripe-looking woodsap that gleamed alluringly in the late-afternoon sun, pointing out that there were no fruiting trees in the glade and that the woodsap must therefore really be the lure of a giant landfish. Flett's suspicion was promptly confirmed as a curious woodhog came sniffing at the treat, only to be confronted by the hideous five-eyed, web-footed creature, which emerged from the ground in a spray of dirt before tossing the squealing animal up into the air and catching it in its gaping jaws. And four days later, the two of them had made to sit on a gnarled old log before simultaneously realizing their mistake and pelting out of the glade as fast as their legs would carry them, ears ringing with the hisses of the hungry logworm they had very nearly fed themselves to.

Luckily, Peatwood did indeed manage to find a few edible plants along their travels. At one point, he had stumbled upon a cluster of wild earthapples, and though only a few of them were ripe enough for the plucking, the two of them were able to treat themselves to an unusually filling lunch. On another occasion, he had found shoots of nightkale growing at the base of a goldbeech. Their supplies of skynectar were still ample, as they only dipped into their mushroom reserves when they couldn't find a stream or river. They knew they would have to conserve it for later in their journey.

For even now, the trees surrounding them were starting to take on a sickly, stunted appearance. The ailing specimens were interspersed with an increasing number of trees which were completely dead. Animals in this region were sparse and starved-looking. They were beginning to enter the region of the forest stricken with the Blight…the Deadwoods.

Suddenly, they rounded the trunk of a diseased brackenpine to be confronted with a razorflit, glowing red eyes bulging, its two sleek pairs of wings whirring, and its slender curved claws extended. But after the initial shock, Flett realized that it was a pitiful specimen, less than a stride long and skeletal in appearance. As they fled, the razorflit gave a piercing shriek, but seemed to lack the energy to take to the air and chase its prey. Not too long after, they found a daggerslash lying in wait between two sallowdrops that drooped pitifully in spite of the clear, rushing stream nourishing them. Discolored and flaking from malnutrition, the beast's camouflage was ruined. A stunted rotsucker spat at them from the brittle branch of a dead blackwood, its discharge of bile a sickly white instead of the normal acid green.

"It's dying," said Peatwood unnecessarily, as they walked past the deflated corpse of a hoverworm. "The whole forest is dying."

"But as terrible as it is for the Edge," said Flett, ignoring the wheezes of a skullpelt that hunched amidst a withered lullabee grove, no longer able to lure its prey, "it's good for us, right? I mean, if all these predators can't attack us…"

"The Deadwoods is just as dangerous," said Peatwood darkly. "Of course, you wouldn't have been told this by the Empire's media monopoly, but many formerly rare Deepwoods predators that thrived in dead forest have migrated into the region…gnarlwraiths and bramble-worms and prong-buzzards. They can go for ages and ages without food, waiting patiently for tasty treats like ourselves."

Flett did not respond to this ominous and unpleasant piece of news for many seconds. Finally, he said "We'll keep on the move. Stay in the shadows. Just like in the Deepwoods."

There wasn't a single healthy tree to be seen anymore. Every one of them was dead or dying. It didn't seem to be for lack of water or sunlight, of which there were plenty. Flett and Peatwood often found themselves crossing streams and brooks. Some of the ground was cracked and dry, undoubtedly because the trees could no longer diffuse water through the surrounding soil, but the trees growing at the riverbanks were faring no better than the ones surrounded by parched earth. And although the region was full of chilly mists and overcast sky, there were enough breaks in the clouds for some trees to be bathed in brightness…and these trees were dying just the same.

What, then, was ailing the Eastern Woods? Flett could not see any sign of parasitism in the tree trunks, no evidence of biological infection. It was almost as if the forest had simply given up. Flett was chilled by the fact that no obvious cause could be found. He knew that the Blight was spreading west. What if, someday, it consumed the entire Deepwoods?

If anyone could cure this illness, Flett realized, it was the Omniphrax academics. He had no idea how extensive their knowledge of the Deepwoods might be, but he did know that a society that encouraged free thinking was a society that could more easily answer questions about the world. Whatever the newly created "Phraxguardians" were, Flett knew that they would not do the Edgeworld any good.

That night, they carefully chose a tree whose branches would be sturdy enough to support them. And the next day, their travels were totally uneventful. No predators disturbed them, though they continued to take great care not to draw undue attention to themselves. Another day passed, and then another, all without encountering a single creature.

Their most pressing issue now became their dwindling supplies of food. Only a handful of pine-kernels remained, and they increasingly found themselves forced to skip meals. The skynectar was still in plentiful supply, which was a tremendous relief, as they were beginning to see fewer and fewer streams in this part of the forest.

Finally, one day, they were walking amidst a blackened stand of ironwood pines when Peatwood threw out an arm and caught Flett in the stomach. "Look," he whispered.

They were standing on the edge of a clearing which was alive with activity. Groups of goblins, trogs, trolls, and fourthlings were chained together, shuffling this way and that, entering and exiting a wooden structure which seemed to house the entrance to an underground tunnel. Here and there, flathead and hammerhead goblins were roaring curses and insults, lashing out with whips and clubs.

"A phraxmine," muttered Peatwood. "Most of them were abandoned, but phraxcrystals still play a necessary role in some forms of weaponry. Of all the rotten luck, we stumble upon one still in use."

"Can't we just, you know…blend in?" said Flett. "I doubt they'd recognize us as the fugitives from Great Glade."

Peatwood shook his head gravely, taking a step backwards and sitting in the shade of a dead tree. "Only a very select group of slaves and overseers are permitted to be here. So much as setting foot in this part of the Edge without authorization is punishable by death. The reason, of course, is that anyone who passes through here without being sanctioned is almost surely trying to reach Omniphrax. Of course, if we pass into the Twilight Woods," he added with a grim smile, "They won't follow. They won't think they'll have to."

"What?" Flett said sharply. "We're going through the Twilight Woods? Why can't we just detour through the Edgelands?"

"Without food?" Peatwood said, indicating the bag in Flett's hands. Flett peered in and saw with an unpleasant jolt that it was now empty. Not a single pine-kernel or mushroom remained. "We can't go hungry or thirsty in the Twilight Woods. The mists will see to that. Going right through and risking our sanity is our only hope of getting there alive."

Flett felt sick. It was an appalling idea. Once they entered the glowing mist beyond the phraxmines, it would cost them every effort to remember who they were and what they were doing. But it certainly did seem to be the only way. Glumly, without thinking too much about what he was doing, Flett undid the knots in his jacket and slipped it back on, protecting him from the chilly fog.

"All right," he muttered. "Let's just find a way to sneak around this mine. Then…"

Peatwood screamed.

Flett turned around, ready to admonish him for failing to keep his voice down, and felt his insides turn to ice.

The young woodtroll was lying on the ground not too far away, clutching his face. And the dead tree he had been sitting underneath was standing over him, flexing its lower branches. A knot in its side opened up to reveal a mouth lined with row upon row of jagged, splintery teeth.

"A bark ghoul!" yelled Peatwood thickly, his face shining with blood from his broken nose, staggering to his feet, as the tree-monster raised a branch for another swipe.

Flett didn't know what to do. Could they outrun the creature by dashing around the perimeter of the phraxmine? Or was their only option to sprint through the clearing and reveal themselves to Empire officials?


	7. Story 1, Chapter 7

Peatwood dived backwards as the bark ghoul swung again, one hand clutching his swelling nose. Flett grabbed his podgy hand and began to sprint around the semicircle of brambly trees surrounding the phraxmine.

The bark ghoul was faster than they were. However, it was impeded by the fact that it was much larger than its quarry, and had to negotiate the labyrinth of blackened trunks. Perhaps there were going to be able to slip around the phraxmine undetected after all.

Unfortunately, their luck ran out.

"Did you hear that, Gork-Teg?" shouted a hammerhead goblin somewhere off to Flett's left.

"There's someone in there," said a second.

"Naw, it's only a bark ghoul," growled a flathead.

"A bark ghoul that's chasing someone, you halfwit!" roared the first hammerhead.

"Cut 'em off!" bellowed the second hammerhead. "They're trying to circle around the perimeter! We'll ambush 'em!"

It was no good. If they kept going, they might escape the bark ghoul, but they'd run right into the waiting arms of the phraxmine overseers. Their only hope was to cut across the glade itself, and hope that both the overseers and the bark ghoul would be caught by surprise.

Flett gestured at Peatwood, who understood immediately. As one, they turned and burst out of the trees. They were now running out in the open, in plain sight of anyone who might cast their gaze in that direction.

At first, the three muscular goblins didn't seem to notice anything. They continued to move towards the outer edge of the phraxmine, as Flett and Peatwood dashed towards the pithead. The slaves, driven half-mad by exposure to twilight glow, barely registered the young fourthling and woodtroll who had just appeared on the scene.

The first one to react to the new turn of events was the bark ghoul.

Snapping and snarling, the brambly tree monster changed direction and came crashing out of the Deadwoods, stumbling into the clearing. Through the thick, foggy air, Flett could see the creature's three dark eyes focused directly upon him and Peatwood.

The startled goblin overseers snapped a look towards the bark ghoul stomping in the direction of the pithead, and then their eyes found the two individuals it was chasing.

"There! Over there, Thugwitt!"

The goblins began to dash in the direction of Flett and Peatwood. But they seemed much too far away to catch up, and they weren't as fast as the monster chasing them. Flett figured that the bark ghoul was their most pressing concern now.

He was wrong.

There came the sounds of glistergun fire, and all of a sudden the bark ghoul let out an earsplitting roar of pain as two of its branches were blown off by energy charges. Another volley of shots blasted it in the back, and the beast came crashing to the ground.

Now that the bark ghoul had been dealt with, the overseers directed their attention to Flett and Peatwood.

"Come on!" Peatwood screamed. "Back into the Deadwoods!"

They had no choice. The Twilight Woods side of the phraxmine was still so far away, and even now more overseers were surging out of barracks on either side. The only option was to go back.

They dashed away from the pithead and threw themselves back into the tangle of dead trees just as a fresh wave of blasts kicked up the dirt around them.

"They won't get far," Flett heard the flathead growling. "Put every phraxmine on the alert. We'll catch them!"

As they dashed on ahead, weaving wildly between trunks, they heard the sounds of pursuing goblins. Every so often, they passed into an abandoned glade filled with boarded-up, run-down cabins…the buildings which had housed phraxminers during the Third Age of Flight, located so far away from the phraxmines to protect the workers from twilight madness, before Vartolius Xax had ordered a new barracks to be constructed directly on-site, sacrificing the workers' safety in the name of efficiency. Whenever they heard the sounds of stampeding overseers drawing nearer, Flett and Peatwood switched direction, determined to lose their pursuers.

And suddenly, they caught sight of a totally unexpected structure ahead of them. Resting in a tree less than strides ahead of them were a pair of old-fashioned sky galleons, their flight-rocks removed and their outlines disfigured by a network of platforms and staircases. For some reason, this structure was not run-down and crumbling like everything else out here. A rope ladder dangled from one of the open doorways, extending down to the ground.

"Climb up!" shouted Flett without a moment's hesitation. He scrambled up the ladder at lightning speed, Peatwood directly behind him, as the yells grew nearer. By the time the charging goblins arrived on the scene, they had disappeared inside. They dashed past, taking no notice.

"Hello," came a deep voice behind them. They jumped in fright and looked around. A dark shadow was moving towards them. The next moment, light flared from an ancient oil lamp, casting a flickering glow over the scene.

The speaker was a grizzled old flathead, but there were others inside this strange building. Flett saw a shryke-mate with dull purplish-blue plumage, a stooped gabtroll that was missing an eyestalk, a young but heavily-scarred and pockmarked oakelf, and a gaunt fourthling with a thick gray beard.

The instant that the lights had flickered on, all five of them recoiled, staring at the red jacket that Flett was wearing. "He's with the Empire!" shouted the oakelf.

"We can't let him reveal our secret," wheezed the gabtroll, drawing a chipped scimitar from his belt.

"No! No!" cried Peatwood, diving in front of Flett and holding his arms wide. "It's all right! He's a deserter!"

"Are you sure?" said the fourthling, folding his arms. "Are you _quite_ sure?"

"They could _both_ be spies," squawked the shryke-mate.

"We aren't spies," said Peatwood, gingerly picking at the clumps of dried blood already forming around his bent nose.

"You're talking to them as though you know them," said Flett in confusion.

"I know _of_ them," said Peatwood. "Shuttlers, they call themselves. Not long ago, there were dozens of groups like this, stationed all over the Eastern Woods. They were a mixture of Omniphrax academics and disillusioned citizens of the Empire, all working to help runaways escape. They used to act as waypoints for those heading to Omniphrax, each group guiding travelers to the next. Most of them got stamped out by glistership patrols, and the Empire thinks they're all gone, but it was always rumored that a few of them remained."

"I can't answer for any other groups," said the flathead. "We could well be the very last Shuttlers still out there. Most in Omniphrax no longer think Shuttling is worth the risk. These days, those who want to help rescue the oppressed of the Empire become Pirates Academic."

"We feel differently," said the fourthling. "Certainly the Pirates Academic have been able to rescue people in greater volumes, but what about individuals like you, who have already fled from the Empire and need help to complete the journey? There's not a smidgen of help the Pirates Academic can offer you. That's the whole point of Shuttling. Once we're all gone, they'll have little hope."

"As it is, we have precious little capacity to help," said the oakelf. "This structure we're in…it used to be a tavern. 'The Hulks', they called it. It's cozy enough, but hardly a useful hideout. When we can, we steal supplies from nearby phraxmines, but we have nothing to offer you at the moment."

"You _did_ help," said Flett. "Thanks to you, we lost our pursuers. You have our eternal gratitude."

"We only wish we could do more," said the gabtroll, his single eyestalk bouncing. "It sounds as though the overseers have gone. Head for the Twilight Woods, and make haste!"

With heartfelt goodbyes to their rescuers, Flett and Peatwood descended the rope ladder and set off into the dark trees once more. This time, they never changed direction, moving purposefully ahead, as the mists grew thicker and thicker, the air starting to twinkle, the atmosphere flooding their heads as though they were submerged in liquid…

"Flett," said Peatwood softly, as they pressed on between the dead trunks. "My nose. It doesn't hurt anymore."

Flett glanced at the woodtroll. The pain may have left him, but his nose didn't look any better. He stared around at the twinkling of the thousands of twinkling phraxcrystals, at the swirling sepia dust whooshing through the half-lit glades…

"This is it," he said. "We've reached the Twilight Woods."


	8. Story 1, Chapter 8

The two of them trudged on purposefully through the gleaming twilight mists curling around the crumbling trees. The Twilight Woods, it was clear, had been ravaged even more thoroughly than the Eastern Woods. There were glades littered with crumbling logs and branches, as though many of the dead trees were disintegrating into nothing. Phraxdust and phraxcrystals gleamed on the rotten piles of wood like newly falling snow.

However, the mysterious half-light that flooded the forest was perfectly unchanged. Flett and Peatwood began to find their consciousness drift and meander, barely within their control.

"We must speak to each other," said Flett confidently, feeling a warm glow of comfort at his own words. Repeating them afforded him a sense of security. "That's all we have to do, to keep our minds. That's all. To keep our minds, we must speak to each other. If we speak to each other, we keep our minds. We keep…"

"Flett!" cried Peatwood, and Flett felt a shard of ice cascade into his stomach, despite the warmth of his surroundings. He had very nearly let his mind slip away. "I…I…" he spluttered.

"It's okay," said Peatwood reassuringly. "It could happen to anyone here. So many distractions. So many diversions. So many disruptions. So many disturbances. So many…"

"No, Peatwood!" Flett yelled. The woodtroll shook his head, looking a little confused. They passed a jumble of fallen trees, glittering with swirling sepia dust.

"There's only one way to retain our minds in here," said Peatwood, gazing around at the shafts of amber light streaming between still-standing groves of bare trees. "We must remind ourselves continuously of our identities and our destination. It's the one thing that will work."

Flett tried. He anxiously grasped at the knowledge that was threatening to slide away into blackness. "I am…I am Flett Grayle, of Ambristown. I have fled the Great Glade Military, and I seek a new life within the city of Omniphrax at the farthest tip of the Edge. I…I seek freedom."

"I…am Peatwood Timberslice, of Southern Outer City," Flett heard the voice murmuring tentatively from behind him. "I have escaped bondage in Great Glade, and I too wish to reach Omniphrax…in the name of my poor, lost parents, Barkley and Grenda."

They continued on in this manner for some time, each taking turns, each repeating their phrase, altering it slightly each time to ensure that they would retain the meaning, rather than the mere rote memorization of the words. It cost them a terrible effort to think clearly…it was rather like fighting to stay awake when one's eyelids were heavy as leadwood.

Visions popped out at them through the crumbling trees, often disrupting their concentration. Figures from Flett's former life leapt out at him, making tempting promises, but each time Flett forced himself to ignore the spirits. Peatwood, too, was just managing to keep the hallucinations out of his focus. They had no way of knowing how long they had been walking, as the Twilight Woods and its inhabitants were completely divorced from the flow of time. Had it been days? Weeks? Months?

The visions gradually became more aggressive. At one point, Flett was greeted with the sight of the sneering slaughterer from the Great Glade Military. "I'm rising through the ranks!" called the slaughterer. "The Empire is rewarding me! Do you find it unjust? Come…come give me what I deserve…"

When the image finally faded away, it was to be replaced with the sight of two people that made Flett cry out. The figure of Xelius Pulnix stood behind another man…a man Flett had never met in the flesh, but had seen many times on the news back in Ambristown. Not quite as tall as Governor Pulnix, but well-built, the man had a hard, square jaw, a sharp brow, and dark eyes.

"You are a traitor to the Empire," snarled the ghostly vision of Vartolius Xax. "You had it made, a loyal and dedicated servant primed all of your life for glory, and you threw it away on the lies of this woodtroll scum. You'll learn the truth of Omniphrax as soon as you arrive, Flett Grayle. You'll discover the ugly reality of the place you seek. You can never fit in anywhere! You are an enemy to the rebels, and a traitor to the Empire. You are nothing!"

"You're wrong!" screamed Flett, pointing a trembling finger at the Glorious Leader. "_You_ are the liar, not Peatwood! You've lied to the entire Edge! You can't suppress the world forever!"

"_Forever! Forever!_" echoed the figures.

Flett suddenly realized that Peatwood was shaking him. "It's not real, Flett! It's not real!" the woodtroll was yelling.

"I…I know," said Flett vaguely, looking back at Peatwood. "I know it isn't." And for a long time after that, they continued on in a mundane fashion, repeating the knowledge of their lives aloud, desperate to hold on to reality.

Concentrating as he was upon grasping the knowledge of who he was, Flett didn't register that Peatwood's muttering was growing simpler and simpler. But suddenly, shaking himself back into wakefulness, Flett realized that Peatwood was no longer reminding himself of his identity. Instead, he was simply muttering the names of his parents. "Barkley and Grenda…Barkley and Grenda…"

Suddenly, he stiffened. For a moment, Flett thought that Peatwood had snapped back to reality. But on the contrary, Peatwood's widened, misty eyes were focused on a spot far to their left.

"Mother!" he cried "Father!" He made to run towards the point where he thought he could see his parents, but Flett seized him roughly and held him in place. Peatwood struggled violently, his eyes now blazing. "Let me go!" he shouted. "Let me go! I've found them at last! See them, waving to me from that glade!"

"Peatwood!" yelled Flett, shaking the thrashing woodtroll. "Your parents are dead! We saw them die in the crash! It's…it's the Twilight Woods! It's tricking you, Peatwood! It's all a trick!"

Saying these things filled Flett with courage and energy. They were even more powerful than his repetitive chanting in reminding him of his purpose. He could not—he _would_ not—let the Twilight Woods claim Peatwood. Not after everything they had been through…all the dangers they had faced and conquered together.

"You shan't have Peatwood!" Flett roared, his arms wrapped tightly around his friend's broad waist. "You'll never take him!"

"_Take him…take him…_" the woods seemed to echo back.

"Leave me!" Peatwood howled. "Mother! Father! I'm coming!" He raised a dark, hairy-knuckled fist and took a swing at Flett's head. Flett ducked to avoid the blow, and dragged Peatwood out of the clearing, half carrying the woodtroll, tapping into strength he didn't know he possessed.

"No!" Peatwood bellowed. "No! No!" The woodtroll suddenly managed to wrench himself free of Flett's grip and dashed back towards the clearing where he had seen the illusion.

With a strangled cry, Flett dived forwards and seized Peatwood's ankles, sending him crashing to the ground in a billowing cloud of sepia dust. Before Peatwood could move a muscle, Flett had tackled him, pinning him to the place where he had landed. Despite Peatwood's stocky, muscular build, Flett was overpowering him through the sheer strength of his desperation to save his friend.

Suddenly, Flett registered a slight thinning of the twilight mists. His mind sharpened. It could only mean one thing. They were at the edge of the Twilight Woods. Their journey was nearly over!

But even now, Peatwood struggled violently, the woods refusing to release him. Tugging and tearing at Flett's grip, Peatwood was growing still harder to hold on to. But Flett could see through a hole in the gnarled trunks a patch of air that was darker and clearer. A thrill of anxiety stabbed at Flett now. Although he knew that the figure of Vartolius Xax has only been a figment of his imagination, the words the dictator had shouted at him rang through his head still. How could he be sure—absolutely sure—that Peatwood was right about Omniphrax? What, exactly, had they braved all those perils to find?

Flett knew, however, that whatever lay in wait for them in Omniphrax, it was surely better than an eternity wandering through the Twilight Woods. Anything was better than that. So he held onto Peatwood as hard as he could, pulling him on towards the slowly growing patch of static, sepia-free air. And suddenly, they broke free, looking upon a sight that Flett could never possibly have imagined.

Like the Empire side of the Twilight Woods, the Omniphrax side was dotted with phraxmines. But the miners here were cleaner, and more fit and alert. They weren't shackled together, and they weren't being whipped. But what drew Flett's eye was the incredible structure several hundred strides away.

It was a colossal fortress of sumpwood, stretching off into the mists of the left and right, and extending too high up for Flett to make out the top. How the Omniphrax academics had managed to get their hands on so much sumpwood, he had no idea. Clusters of dwellings and defense towers protruded from the wall at every level, and Flett knew that the fortress would be able to repel any invasion that the Empire could possibly send.

Finally, Peatwood slipped from Flett's grasp. Flett wheeled around to see Peatwood struggling back towards the luminous glades they had just left, calling for his mother and father. But before he had gotten ten strides, a pair of phraxminers leapt forward and grabbed him.

"Easy now, son," grunted one of them. "Your nightmare is over. You're going to be all right."

Flett barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before four more phraxminers pounced on him, dragging him back. "Surprising," hissed one of them. "Great Glade soldiers rarely have the courage to follow their victims all the way through the Twilight Woods."

"No, no!" Flett cried desperately. "I…"

"What's going on here?"

Everyone froze, and turned to face the one who had spoken. It was an elderly fourthling, perhaps in her late seventies, but she comported herself with the energy of someone much younger. Her silvery hair was twisted up into a knot at the back of her head. Her green eyes were narrowed, and she stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the scene imperiously. She wore a uniform that seemed to indicate a position of high office…it appeared that, just as with Xelius Pulnix, they had chosen to arrive at the precise moment when a high-ranking government official made an appearance, and at the moment, Flett felt quite as horrified as on the previous occasion.

"High Senator Prade," said one of the phraxminers who had hold of Flett, inclining his head respectfully. "These two came staggering out of the Twilight Woods mere seconds ago. By the looks of them, an escaped Great Glader and a soldier trying to reclaim him."

Flett turned desperately to look at Peatwood. Surely his friend would tell them the truth. Surely Peatwood would vouch for him.

But the woodtroll was still insensible and blinded by the effects of the Twilight Woods. Struggling furiously, he was still calling out "Mother! Father!"

Flett slowly rotated his head, and met the gaze of the High Senator of Omniphrax. Her expression was pitiless and scorching. And once again, the words of the fake Vartolius Xax came back to him. "_You are an enemy to the rebels, and a traitor to the Empire. You are nothing!_"


	9. Story 1, Chapter 9

Never before in Flett's life had the feelings of elation and dread so viciously battled with each other, never had they so determinedly vied for superiority, as when he had looked out upon Omniphrax for the very first time, the great city sprawled beneath him, visible through a tiny window inside the hull of the First-Age sky galleon into which he had been loaded and shackled.

He had never imagined that such a beautiful place could possibly exist.

From the air, the receding shape of the great fortress—"Twilight's Edge", he had heard one of his captors call it—was no less impressive. Flett realized that it must stretch all the way from the northern Edgelands to the southern Edgelands, allowing the troops manning the defensive towers and gantries to screen anyone unwanted from entering this entire region of the Edgeworld. It was absolutely incredible…and it was only the beginning.

Sprawled out on the other side of Twilight's Edge was a huge collection of colonies connected by serene-looking roads winding through gently rolling hills of greatgrass. Each small settlement was structured differently—some comprised long-huts or hive-huts in styles of ancient goblin tribes, others were collections of modern-looking buildings, still others simulated Deepwoods habitats. Could this truly be the Mire? Could it truly be the region that, a mere six hundred years ago, was a desolate wasteland of bleached white mud?

As they approached the very lip of rock that was the Edge, Flett caught sight of a more developed region. The city of Old Undertown seemed to have been rebuilt, though even here, great stands of trees fought with the buildings for control of the skyline. Still more astonishing, the ancient floating rock of Sanctaphrax had been restored to its former location, nearly perfect replicas of its academies and institutions rendering the city just as it had been during the First Age of Flight. Furthermore, it appeared that in the Stone Gardens, the academics were busy creating brand new Sanctaphrax rocks, the clusters of towers protruding from massive bulges in the rock face.

Peatwood was right. He had been right about everything. Even from this lofty, distant viewpoint, Flett felt that the whole place had an aura of curiosity, of eagerness and tolerance. This was a place of freedom.

But Flett's insides clenched painfully at the thought that the academics believed he had come in the attempt to destroy those freedoms. Earth and Sky willing, Peatwood would regain his wits and back up his story.

Eventually, as they approached Undertown, the sky ship began to descend. Flett remained where he sat, heart pounding with anticipation. When at last the ship juddered to a halt, floating above a stretch of land just to the east of Undertown, and the hatch in the ceiling opened up, spilling light into the hold, two fettleleggers appeared on the steps, each wearing the same distinctive uniform. They wore crushed funnel-hats of dark red, and their steel breastplates were covered in leaves—both embossed leaf patterns and actual leaves plucked from many different kinds of trees—surrounding an elaborate blue symbol…the humped, round-snouted, snaggle-toothed head of a borella. And both fettleleggers were pointing loaded crossbows at Flett's chest.

The one on the left strode over to Flett, keeping the crossbow primed, and removed the shackles. The other gestured for Flett to follow them, and he did so, arms raised above his head, doing his best to look innocent and unthreatening.

Once they had emerged onto the deck of the sky galleon, Flett gazed in the direction of the Stone Gardens. There were, he saw, three distinct bulges in the earth where new Sanctaphrax rocks seemed to be growing, and each one was being used for a different purpose. The nearest one was covered in elaborate wooden domes and greenhouses, and the one next to it featured many short, simple buildings that were similar to those nestled amongst the trees in Undertown. The third seemed to be a jumble of shipyards and cradles, though in the center stood a spectacular tower. Sleek sky ships outfitted with weaponry were arriving and departing from platforms protruding from all levels of the great structure.

A third uniformed individual, this one a squat, blond fourthling, came dashing up the stairs and across the gangplank, coming to a stop on the deck, in front of the two fettleleggers, "It's all been taken care of," he panted. "The woodtroll refugee is being sent to the Dormitory Towers as we speak. No improvement in his condition, but we haven't lost hope."

"And _this_?" said one of the fettleleggers, gesturing at Flett.

"Don't ask me why, Tholver, but the High Senator herself has asked to interrogate him," said the fourthling.

A knot tightened in Flett's stomach.

"So what do we do with him?"

"He is to be taken to Pirate Landing."

As soon as the fourthling turned and left, the fettleleggers gestured to the hooded stone pilot, who inserted a pair of metal cooling rods into the porous surface of the flight rock. With a hiss, the flight rock pulled upward, causing the ship to rise, and as the cloddertrog at the helm adjusted the flight-levers, the sky ship began to head for the third cluster of buildings. In another minute, they had arrived on one of the lower platforms of the great tower, and Flett found himself being shunted off the ship and towards an open door.

The inside of the tower was taken up by a single great chamber, ringed with walkways on every floor. The people in here wore greatcoats of a rich, deep blue, and Flett understood that these were the Pirates Academic. In the center, a cluster of elevators whizzed up and down. They seemed to have been made from hollowed-out flight-rocks, ascending as the lift operators inserted cooling-rods, descending as they fanned the flight-burners. Flett had never seen anything like it before.

A solitary stone elevator hovered on their level, and one of the fettleleggers flanking Flett waved to the mobgnome inside, who nodded back. "Ground floor," he said as they stepped inside.

The mobgnome began pumping a set of bellows, and instantly the interior of the elevator grew hot. The capsule shot downwards, past level after level of walkways, the people walking across them blurred, the streaks of other stone elevators whooshing past as the chilled material whistled.

As it turned out, the chamber they were in did not take up the entire tower. The ground floor was its own room, a large circular hall ringed with fluted columns. Pirates Academic were striding this way and that, but the instant they caught sight of Flett, they came to a halt, glaring at him. Flett felt as though he had physically shrunken upon his arrival in the room.

Fortunately, it was over quickly. Flett was shepherded into a plain side chamber containing nothing except two plain blackwood chairs and an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. Without another word, the fettleleggers withdrew, locking the door behind them.

Flett sat in one of the chairs, staring around at his nondescript surroundings with mounting fear. He had no friends here. There was no one to stick up for him. Peatwood was off in another part of Omniphrax, in no fit state to talk to anyone.

And then, the lock clicked, and the door opened once more, and a familiar elderly fourthling strode in. She sat down in the other chair and faced Flett sternly.

There were a few moments of silence. And then, she said, "Do you know who I am?"

Flett did not respond.

"My name is Eudoxia Prade. I am the founder and High Senator of Omniphrax."

Flett nodded. He felt deeply humbled by the woman before him, and even though he had done nothing wrong, could not suppress a tide of shame and guilt welling up inside him.

"Do you have a name?" inquired Eudoxia coldly. "Or perhaps a number? Given the Empire's attitude, I can't be sure."

"Flett Grayle," he replied softly.

Eudoxia raised her eyebrows. "_Grayle_, did you say? A long time ago, my father employed someone with that name. Grint Grayle, he was called…"

"My great-grandfather," said Flett. "I don't know anything about him, though…"

Eudoxia's lips were pursed. "I had a…well, I mean, my…"

To Flett's surprise, the High Senator turned away suddenly, her eyes watery. She took a few deep breaths, and fixed Flett with a stern gaze once more.

"There was an acquaintance of mine who reported to him. Grint Grayle murdered that acquaintance's father, and tried to kill him. He also stole dozens of crates of phraxcrystals, sold them on the black market, and kept the profits for himself. What do you think of that, Flett Grayle?"

Flett swallowed. "It…it sounds like he was a terrible man."

"And yet you enlisted in the Great Glade Military," said Eudoxia. "How are you any better?"

"Please…" whispered Flett desperately. "This is all a big misunderstanding. I swear. You don't understand."

Eudoxia leaned back in her chair, and crossed her legs. "Then by all means," she said, "enlighten me."

Flett began to tell the High Senator everything that had happened since that day, long ago, when he left his condominium in a fever of nationalism. He described his experience in the Great Glade Military—the atrocities he had seen and the atrocities that he had been expected to commit. He told her of how he had met Peatwood, of their harrowing escape from Great Glade, and of their trek eastward. He left out no details, determined to paint for Eudoxia a vivid and accurate picture of who he was…desperate for her to believe in his innocent desire to start afresh in Omniphrax.

Eudoxia stared at him for a long time after he had finished speaking. Her expression was no longer one of contempt, but of pity.

"I am sorry," she said at last, "but I cannot accept your word on faith."

"But…please, you must believe me!" cried Flett desperately.

"I do believe you," said Eudoxia. "I believe your heart is good. But without real proof, without anyone else to corroborate your story, I cannot allow you to go free. You must understand."

Deep down, Flett did understand. But it didn't do anything for his anger and frustration.

"We are a merciful society," said Eudoxia. "We would never banish you from Omniphrax. To do so would be a death sentence. But we must detain you, at least until such time as we can glean more information on the matter. Farewell, Flett Grayle."

Eudoxia rose to her feet, opened the door, and muttered to the guards on the other side. The next thing Flett knew, he was being dragged away by the fettleleggers again.

_Please, Peatwood_, he thought desperately. _Please get better. I need you…_


	10. Story 1, Chapter 10

Flett gazed out hopelessly through the bars in his window, staring out at the skyline of Undertown, and the distant forms of the Mire Provinces beyond. For seven days and seven nights, he had been kept in this cell in the Detention Tower, a plain marble building in Undertown that stood not too far from the central government offices in Senate Hall…and he ached to leave the place forever.

He was not terribly uncomfortable…he had a soft bed, and three well-rounded meals a day, and a bathroom with running water. There was even a button by the door that he could press, which would summon a guard any time he wanted, should he have any complaints or questions. Flett didn't know whether all the detainees in Omniphrax were given these amenities, or whether he was merely receiving special treatment because Eudoxia Prade had taken pity on him.

It didn't matter much to him one way or the other. Flett might as well have been suspended by his ankles from leadwood chains in a moldy dungeon and fed piebald rats. He hadn't come to Omniphrax for fluffy snowbird-down pillows or running water or square meals. He had come to Omniphrax for his freedom. And that was the only thing the academics resolutely refused to give him.

Every time one of the guards—or "librarians-at-arms", as they called themselves—came to his door, either to bring him food or merely to check that he was behaving himself, Flett asked the same question: "Is Peatwood recovering?" And every time, the librarian-at-arms would give him the same answer: "I don't know."

Flett quickly came to realize that "I don't know" meant "No". Surely if Peatwood had indeed regained his sanity, he would immediately demand to know where Flett was, would be outraged upon learning the answer, and would offer an exonerating testimony. So Flett was left where he was, while fear for Peatwood and anger at his predicament mounted inside him.

Flett's bitter thoughts were interrupted by footsteps. Turning, he saw through the bars of his door that a spindly, long-faced treetroll had come to a halt, fumbling with the lock. Flett recognized him as Sergeant Twentell, the officer who oversaw all of the librarians-at-arms working in the Detention Tower. There was a loud click, and the door creaked open. The treetroll silently placed a plate of fried gladegoose eggs and woodhog bacon on the table beside the bed.

"How's Peatwood?" said Flett quickly.

Sergeant Twentell looked at him. "I do not know," he said.

Flett couldn't stand it anymore.

"Please, just let me see him!" he cried. "At least let me talk to him. That's all I want!"

The treetroll hesitated for several seconds. "I cannot do that," he said.

"Why not?" Flett shouted desperately.

"That is not my decision to make," said Sergeant Twentell.

"Then can't you bring High Senator Prade?" begged Flett. "Can't you send her here? I'll ask her to let me talk to Peatwood!"

"The High Senator," said Sergeant Twentell coolly, "is much too busy to occupy her time with such trivial matters. Why she already wasted one evening interrogating the likes of you is something I cannot understand. But let me make it quite plain that she shall not do so again."

Flett had never felt so frustrated in all of his life. "For Sky's sake, have some compassion!" he yelled. "Peatwood is my friend, and my only hope for freedom!"

"That," replied Sergeant Twentell, "is not my problem. I have been charged with the task of keeping detainees such as yourself safely removed from the good citizens of Omniphrax, and I shall do nothing to risk my position."

"He _needs_ me," cried Flett. "I can feel it! He needs my help, as surely as I need his!"

"If that is true," the treetroll said dispassionately, turning to leave the room, "than both of you are condemned to remain as you are, forever."

Sergeant Twentell had taken two steps before he was tackled from behind. Flett slammed into the librarian-at-arms with such force that his leaf-adorned breastplate clanged like a gong against the tiled floor of the cell. The winded treetroll gasped repeatedly, flailing his limbs and opening and closing his mouth, putting Flett in mind of a struggling bloaterfish. Before Sergeant Twentell had a chance to sound the alarm, Flett had scrambled over him and disappeared along the corridor.

As Flett dashed down the hallways, struggling to find the way out, a shrill alarm rang throughout the building, taking Flett back to the night he had rescued Peatwood and his parents from the clutches of the Great Glade Military. Only this time, he was the target.

Already he regretted what he had done. Until now, he had avoided any conflict, determined as he was to show Omniphrax that he meant their society no harm. But in attacking Sergeant Twentell and making a dash for it, he had shattered that impression, even among those who might have believed it before. Even Peatwood coming to his senses might no longer be enough to earn Flett the acceptance and trust of the Omniphrax academics.


	11. Story 1, Chapter 11

As the shrill siren pierced the early-morning silence of the Detention Tower, Flett sprinted down passage after passage. He hadn't yet run into any librarians-at-arms, but knew his luck wouldn't hold out forever.

Whenever he passed by a cellblock, the other prisoners roared. Some of them—no doubt Omniphrax-born, guilty only of small misdemeanors, and as steadfastly loyal to the city as any beyond the walls of the prison—cursed him and hurled insults and shouted for the librarians-at-arms to come and catch this autocratic, freedom-hating stooge of the Empire. Others—obviously spies and soldiers who had come to Omniphrax with intentions far less pure than Flett's—gave sickening cheers and urged him on, or else demanded that Flett spring them from their incarceration so that they might do the work of the Glorious Leader together.

And then, two librarians-at-arms rounded a corner and charged at Flett. They were a pair of muscular flathead goblins, and they were armed not with crossbows but phraxpistols.

Flett dived forwards in a tumbling somersault, and miraculously passed right underneath the hairy legs of the flathead on the right, merely brushing the inside of the guard's thigh in passing. Temporarily stunned by the move, the goblins took a second to turn around and fire their weapons, by which time Flett had already dashed down a flight of stairs to the left.

He burst out into the large circular atrium on the ground floor of the tower. And there, on the other side of the room, was the exit. Refusing to allow the librarians-at-arms another chance to cut him off, he tore across the atrium and positively flew through the doors.

Down the winding dirt roads Flett ran, past ornamental weeping-willoak groves and across covered bridges. The rising sun was only just beginning to cast light upon his surroundings. He had lost his pursuers…but not for long. Sergeant Twentell was sure to have worked out where he was heading. He'd have to be a fool not to work it out.

As Flett ran, he pulled off his red jacket and threw it aside. It would be a dead giveaway to passersby…best to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

He turned onto a wide cobbled thoroughfare lined with brownstones. Already early-morning pedestrians were bustling this way and that. Heads turned to stare at the sprinting youth, but he didn't slow down. He could never run all the way through the Stone Gardens without being caught…but perhaps if he used the public transportation system, he would have time to make his move.

After several minutes of desperate searching, Flett found what he was looking for. A small jetty branched off of the path, projecting over the Edgewater River, and many sky ferries hovered expectantly, waiting for passengers.

Flett leaped up the steps to the top of the jetty and sprang into the nearest one. "Errr…where to, young master?" inquired the pilot, a small, sharp-chinned barkelf, clearly bemused by Flett's demeanor.

"Dormitory Towers," gasped Flett, panting heavily.

The little sky ferry rose, turned, and darted off towards the tall, boxy buildings in the Stone Gardens. Flett didn't pay too much attention to his surroundings during the trip. He was too busy dreading the next step of the journey. Sky ships of all sizes and shapes were arriving and departing from a landing at the base of the towers. Any one of them could be carrying Sergeant Twentell, who would place the security forces on high alert.

And unfortunately, the moment the sky ferry arrived that the landing, Flett realized that the librarians-at-arms were expecting him.

The startled barkelf cried out in alarm as a group of guards charged towards his sky ferry, the blue borella heads bobbing up and down as they ran. Flett leaped down onto the landing and tore away.

Crossbow bolts and leadwood bullets whooshed past him as he sprinted on, weaving erratically to present a harder target. He cried out as a bullet grazed his forearm, more in surprise than in pain. His adrenaline was pumping too hard for him to know how badly he had been hurt, but he was able to move his arm, so it didn't seem serious.

Flett dashed behind a building, the librarians-at-arms in hot pursuit. Without thinking, Flett hurled himself through an empty doorframe and stood with his back pressed to the wall of the dark room he found himself in. If one of the librarians-at-arms decided to check the doorway, he'd be done for. But they all dashed past without a glance at the opening. A minute later, he cautiously crept back outside and started down the back alleys of the Dormitory Towers.

Although Flett had no idea which tower Peatwood was being kept in, but had a feeling it would be relatively obvious. Sure enough, as he peered around one of the buildings, he saw no fewer than twenty librarians-at-arms standing sentry outside the main doors of a tower across the street.

Making his way along the empty side streets, Flett soon found himself standing before the rear wall of the building. Just as he had hoped, there was a means of climbing up—a narrow gutter that extended from roof to ground.

Quietly and cautiously, Flett began his ascent. The going was painfully slow, and soon the muscles in Flett's injured arm were screaming in protest. Whenever possible, he planted his feet on a windowsill and rested for several seconds. He was terrified that he might be spotted from another tower, or else that the resident of a nearby room would notice his foot. No shocked shouts came, however, and Flett slowly but surely drew nearer to the top.

His plan was to reach the roof, drop down a chimney or air shaft, and stealthily try to ascertain which room Peatwood was being held in before deciding his next move. He was sure there would be more guards stationed outside the woodtroll's door, so figuring out where he was being kept wouldn't be difficult. Avoiding detection would be considerably harder.

But then, just as he reached the third window from the top, and he placed his foot on the window ledge, his heart skipped a beat.

Peatwood was inside the room.

The young woodtroll was still asleep, tossing and turning fitfully. A thick bandage swathed his nose. From beyond the closed door, Flett could hear the murmurs of the librarians-at-arms beyond.

Flett stepped onto the ledge and quietly slid inside. He then peered back down at the ground instinctively…and felt his stomach drop. There were five figures standing there, looking up at him—Eudoxia Prade, Sergeant Twentell, and three librarians-at-arms. A few seconds later, they dashed off. Flett had very little time left.

He crossed the room, coming to a halt beside the bed where Peatwood lay. Prodding the woodtroll, he muttered, "Peatwood, it's me,"

Peatwood did not respond, but continued to thrash in agitation. Flett tried a few more times, but got no response. It wasn't until his sixth attempt to rouse his friend that he finally succeeded.

Peatwood's eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing. "Mother," he whispered. "Father…"

"No, Peatwood," said Flett. "They're gone."

Peatwood turned towards Flett, but didn't say anything. Flett had no idea whether Peatwood knew someone was there.

"We saw your parents die, Peatwood. Both of us," said Flett softly. "But you know what? They're proud of you. I know they are. They are looking down at you from open sky, and their hearts are bursting with happiness, because you managed to do what they could not. You reached Omniphrax. _We_ reached Omniphrax. You and me, Peatwood. You and me."

The door banged open. Eudoxia Prade strode in, her green eyes blazing with anger, while Sergeant Twentell bounded along in her wake, looking very pleased with himself.

"So…" said Eudoxia, her voice low and seething, "it seems that my first impressions of you were correct."

"No…" Flett gasped.

"It gives me great pain to authorize this," said Eudoxia, "but you have proved to us that you will be a danger to Omniphrax. I cannot allow you to live. Twentell, if you please…"

Sergeant Twentell stepped forwards in triumph, taking aim with a phraxpistol. Flett squeezed his eyes shut, braced to die.

"Stop!"

Flett's eyes snapped open. Peatwood was standing between him and Sergeant Twentell, arms wide. "You can't kill him!" cried the woodtroll. "He saved my life, and my mind!"

Sergeant Twentell slowly lowered his phraxpistol, and gazed at Eudoxia for instruction. The High Senator didn't speak. She merely looked astonished.

Peatwood turned to Flett. Both of them were beaming. "How's your nose feeling?" said Flett.

"It's itchy," said Peatwood, gingerly scratching at his bandaging.

"That means it's healing," said Flett.

"What happened to your arm?" said Peatwood.

The moment Peatwood had spoken these words, Flett suddenly became aware of a dull throbbing pain. At last, fearfully, he raised his arm to take a look at the damage. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was nothing more than a livid purple bruise…ugly, painful, but not serious.

"It doesn't matter," said Flett. That frantic chase might as well have happened years ago. The two friends laughed and hugged, rejoicing at their reunion.

"So…" said Eudoxia slowly, starting to regain her composure, "You are vouching for Flett Grayle? His account of saving you from the Great Glade Military and traveling with you to Omniphrax is true?"

"Of course," said Peatwood firmly. "You've got to welcome him here, the same as me."

"Nevertheless, Flett Grayle's actions today have been inexcusable!" barked Sergeant Twentell. "He has assaulted a librarian officer!"

"What I don't understand," said Eudoxia, turning to Flett, "is why you did not simply plead your case to me once more. I would have certainly authorized you to visit Peatwood, and we could have circumvented all this ugliness."

"I _tried_!" said Flett fiercely. "Sergeant Twentell refused even to relay my request to you, High Senator. He said that if Peatwood truly needed me to help him, then 'both of us were condemned to live as we were, forever'!"

Slowly, Eudoxia turned to stare at the treetroll. "You did not tell me about that."

The triumph that Sergeant Twentell had shown upon entering the room was gone. He had turned white.

"We are presiding over a fair and democratic society, Twentell. We do not deny the least of our detainees due process of law. And you refused to allow Flett here to visit his friend without even consulting your superiors?"

"I…well…" spluttered the treetroll. "I felt that such matters were…beneath you, High Senator Prade. I did not want to trouble you with it."

"Well, you'll never have to trouble me with anything ever again," said Eudoxia with cold contempt. "You are relieved of duty. Now, get out of my sight!"

Sergeant Twentell looked stunned. Then, he wheeled around and stormed out of the room, muttering furiously.

Eudoxia then turned back to Flett, who saw that she was smiling. "Welcome to Omniphrax, Flett Grayle."


	12. Story 1, Chapter 12

Flett and Peatwood strolled through Undertown, staring around happily at their beautiful surroundings.

"What are you going to do now?" Flett asked.

"I figure I'll go to the Mire Provinces," said Peatwood. "I probably don't have the brains to be a full-fledged Farmer Academic, but I daresay I can be some use to the folks out there. What about you?"

"I've been thinking about it for a while," said Flett.

"And?" said Peatwood persistently.

"I want to join the Omniphrax apprentices," said Flett. "You know…the trainees who get groomed for high-level positions. No guarantees I'll have the brains myself, but I can't win if I don't try."

"True, true," said Peatwood.

"I'll be older than any of the other apprentices by a few years," said Flett, stroking his chin. "And there may still be some who are suspicious of me. No doubt I'll have to prove myself to many more people."

"You can do it," said Peatwood. "I know you can. You're good and valiant and noble. I see it in all of your deeds. Others are surely going to see it too, and the ones who don't, like Twentell…well, they're not worth bothering with."

Flett laughed.

Slowly, the two friends continued down the dirt path, as the sun set behind the fuzzy line of Twilight's Edge far, far in the distance. They had finally succeeded. Nobody could say what adventures might take place down the road, but now at last, they would be able to overcome their obstacles in the name of Omniphrax…in the name of freedom.


	13. Story 2, Chapter 1

The door banged open, causing the wiry, brown-haired fourthling to sit bolt upright.

"Come on! Can't you hear it?"

Votsford Drave had been dozing lightly in his hammock, savoring a particularly welcome break. The night shift had been grueling, and a chilly wind had been blowing through much of this region of Middle Sky. Now he could hear the dull, blaring horn ringing throughout the cavernous central avenues within Twilight's Edge, audible even through the walls of his building.

"Damn and blast it all to open sky!" roared Votsford, springing out of his hammock, sheets flying, as he scrambled to get his uniform on yet again. "That's the third time that the emergency alarm failed to activate in my room! If you hadn't woken me, Dorfis, I…"

He listened to the horn for a second longer. "That's no ordinary alarm," he said.

"Emergency, code red," agreed Dorfis Dax. "Only one thing big enough to rouse all of Twilight's Edge…"

"The _Vilnix Pompolnius_," they said together.

The flagship of Vartolius Xax's fleet, captained by Imperial Governor Xelius Pulnix, the _Vilnix Pompolnius_ was the biggest and most destructive glistership ever to take to the air. It was named after an ancient High Academe of Sanctaphrax—cunning, crafty, and corrupt—from which Xelius Pulnix was said to be descended. But since the first-ever Pulnixes who had settled in Great Glade had their roots in Undertown leaguesmen, no one was really sure Xelius Pulnix was indeed telling the truth about his ancestry. It didn't much matter.

Ever since the _Vilnix Pompolnius_ had been constructed eighty-six years previously, unveiled during the centennial of the Empire's founding, the Vartolius Xax and his Phraxguardians of Riverrise had used it to assault Omniphrax. The Twilight Marines had always proved equal to it, driving it back every time, but with each new attack it sported formidable upgrades. Indeed, the Pirates Academic had lately been returning with reports that Vartolius Xax was presiding over the development of a new weapon called a 'glisterbeam'.

Once Votsford had put on his uniform, bearing the distinctive blue-and-gray stripes of the Twilight Marines, he and Dorfis dashed out of his room. Votsford, like most of the Twilight Marines, lived in one of the many vast residential complexes built into the Mire side of the great fortress. Now that everyone had been summoned to combat the invasion, they needed to get to the Phraxfields side of Twilight's Edge immediately. Down the flights of stairs they raced, past kitchens and common rooms and gymnasiums, until they burst through the doors leading to the central avenues.

The colossal space, with its aerial boulevards, had already changed. The sky ferries were no longer flying in every direction, but drawing steadily towards a point on the far side, just visible between the hundreds of maintenance towers separating the avenues.

Votsford and Dorfis joined a large crowd of Twilight Privates boarding a squat, wide sky ship. They managed to take the remaining two empty seats on the deck just as the ship whooshed away from the platform. The alarm still pounded in everyone's ears.

Votsford now noticed that not all of the sky ships were headed for the same spot after all. A few of them were traveling to points up and down the entirety of the Phraxfields side, to guard every region, even places that were nowhere near the predicted path of the _Vilnix Pompolnius_. In light of current events, there could be no question why.

Somehow, Empire spies had been slipping into Omniphrax in alarming volume. There were always a few who managed to get past Twilight's Edge—when an entire border has to be guarded, mistakes are inevitable—but now, it seemed like Empire agents were getting arrested every day, assassinating or attempting to assassinate academics. The leaders of the city had quadrupled security, and so far none of them had been attacked, but they didn't seem to be the targets. It was more like the Phraxguardians wanted to strike fear into the hearts and minds of those who were resisting them. And given the tension that had become palpable throughout Omniphrax, they were succeeding.

The moment their carrier landed, Votsford and Dorfis joined the teeming mass of Twilight Marines on the platform. Gradually, the crowd separated into smaller and smaller groups as everyone headed for different towers or gantries. Finally, Votsford and Dorfis arrived on a large, crowded scaffold looking out over the barren glowing mists of the Phraxfields.

Votsford gasped. The _Vilnix Pompolnius_ was already there, not more than two thousand strides away and approaching fast, heading directly towards the section of Twilight's Edge where the two of them were standing.

"Earth and Sky!" he cried, moving to load a nearby catapult as quickly as possible. "How did it get this close before the alarm was sounded?"

"Incompetence?" suggested Dorfis, as he assisted three others with a massive phraxcannon. "Bad luck? Let's just concentrate on defending Omniphrax. We can ask these questions later!"

The _Vilnix Pompolnius_ drew nearer still, and the party of Twilight Marines was nearly deafened by the shriek of the colossal glisterjets, each as large as the sky ship they had just ridden, and emitting a blinding scarlet glow. The metal energy conduits vibrated as they carried the power of the hundreds of glisters trapped within each jet-chamber to the six propulsion ducts. The construction of the hull, so unlike the lufwood and bloodoak architecture of the Omniphrax sky ships, was of buoyant, metallic lightwood, with a framework of heavy leadwood, engineered meticulously to ensure that the great glistership would be subject only to a mild downward tug of gravity. A great control tower protruded from the stern, surrounded by flat-topped structures. Built into the side of the hull were machines designed to launch all manner of deadly projectiles, and sliding bay doors further down the side indicated where the smaller swarms of glistercraft would be launched once the battle began.

Votsford knew that the battle would be bloody. The Pirates Academic would be on their way, but on such short notice it would take them a while to arrive. Until they did, the Twilight Marines would be on their own.

This wasn't how Votsford had imagined spending his day off.


End file.
